


Inked into your skin and mine

by linndechir



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck is 15 when he decides that he wants a tattoo. 18 when he has Striker inked into his skin. 22 when a bit of ink seems to be all that's left of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked into your skin and mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/350.html?thread=1236062#t1236062) on the kinkmeme. Also, from my limited knowledge about tattoos I'd assume that the kind of large tattoo Chuck is getting in this fic would probably be done in more than one session, but for the sake of simplicity I ignored that fact.

**2019**

“Time out,” Herc calls after flooring Chuck again, takes a step back from the mat before his son can get up on his feet to continue the fight. They're sweat-soaked after spending the whole morning in the gym, and for all the bruises and aching muscles Herc feels an odd sort of elation, mirrored by the smile on Chuck's face. They haven't been so at ease around each other in years; if anything things only became more tense when Herc insisted that he wanted his son as his new co-pilot. But after spending hours a day in the gym for the past week, sparring, getting a feeling for the other's fighting style, Herc almost feels a bit reminded of when he used to play ball with his kid in the park on Sundays. And yes, sometimes Chuck's punches are still a bit too vicious, filled with pent-up anger and resentment, but most of the time is self-control is tight, and Herc sees the boy smile more and more often (usually when he thinks he got the better of Herc, but it's a start).

“Need a break, old man?” Chuck laughs with all the cocky arrogance of a 15-year-old who's too sure of his own strength. Herc will have to keep him grounded once they actually work together, but they haven't drifted yet, they're still working up to that. And arrogance is a common flaw among the brilliant young cadets of the Jaeger Academy, so he would have to deal with that either way. As it is, he just grins and gives Chuck a meaningful look, because his son is the one who's wheezing like he just ran a marathon.

Herc grabs a bottle of water from the bench near the wall, but just as he lifts it to his mouth, Chuck suddenly reaches out to touch his arm. Herc flinches away violently and ends up pouring half the water over himself, but Chuck doesn't laugh, he just inches backwards and tries his best not to look hurt. Herc had simply been startled – they never touch each other when they're not sparring – but the look on Chuck's face is a bitter reminder that no father should react like that to his son's touch. Herc looks down; he feels like he should apologise, but as usual it takes him far too long to think of the right words. Fortunately for him Chuck quickly breaks the silence.

“I want to get a tattoo,” the boy says, almost sulking. Herc only realises then that Chuck's fingers on his arm had retraced the old tattoo there. Sometimes he almost forgets it's still there – the faded ink is a remnant from his early days in the Air Force. He had been 20, everyone else had a tattoo, and Herc had been proud of serving, so the insignia had seemed like a good choice – Royal Australian Air Force, complete with the eagle and the banner reading _Per Ardua ad Astra_ (he was pretty sure that was the only Latin phrase he knew). It had seemed somewhat silly and childish to him only a few years later, but not so much that he would have bothered to get rid of it. And since the kaiju attacked, he's had more pressing things on his mind than some old ink on his arm.

“You are not getting a tattoo,” he says calmly, bites back a groan when Chuck glowers at him.

“I'm going to be a Jaeger pilot; are you really going to tell me I'm too young to get a tattoo? I can make my own decisions, I've been doing that for years -”

Herc cuts him off before Chuck can get into another rant and ruin the somewhat harmonious mood of the morning.

“No, you're not getting a tattoo because you're still growing and your tattoo is going to look like shit in two years if you get it now.”

“Oh,” Chuck says, and Herc is almost surprised that his son isn't also trying to argue against biology now. Truth be told, Chuck actually looks mad that he can't really object to his father's words. The boy is worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth – a nervous habit he really needs to get rid of, it makes him look about two years younger than he is. Trying to save the situation Herc asks him more gently, “What kind of a tattoo do you want to get?”

Chuck smiles again, unaware that his father is indulging him and just hopes that Chuck will change his mind in the two and a half years until his 18th birthday. He leans against the wall next to Herc, and for once he doesn't seem to try and put as much distance between them as possible.

“One of Striker Eureka,” he says, eyes gleaming with excitement. Striker isn't ready yet, it will still take a few more months until the first ever Mark V is ready to be launched, but everyone knows Striker is being built for Hercules Hansen and his new co-pilot, and Chuck is already in love with the Jaeger. Knows everything about it, talks about it constantly the way other boys talk about cars or football teams. “On my back maybe. On the left half, because that'll be my side.”

And suddenly Chuck gets that enthusiastic look of the very young – or the young-at-heart, and Herc hasn't been either in a long time – on his face, the look of someone who just had an idea and thinks it's the best idea anyone has ever had.

“You should get one, too. On the right side, of course.”

Herc's sceptical look only makes Chuck grin more, like he knows he's being a pain in the arse and actively enjoying it. Herc has never had the same passion for Jaegers as his son. Of course he appreciates them for the technological miracles they are, but when it comes down to it they're weapons, a means to an end, nothing else. And he can really imagine better ways to spend God knows how many hours than lying on his belly to get a giant machine inked onto his back.

“Don't you think I'm too old for that?” But Chuck is too smart to let him off the hook that easily. He steps away from the wall and onto the mat again, raises his arms in a perfect defensive posture. Herc feels a swell of pride in his chest at just how _good_ his boy already is.

“What, are you afraid of a few needles, old man?” Chuck teases.

Herc knows better than to assume that one morning spent together in relative harmony, even joking a little, means that all their problems are gone or that Chuck won't go back to not speaking to him for a day next time he gets into one of his moods, but he'll enjoy it while it lasts. And if some time after their first kaiju kill he finds himself agreeing to getting that silly tattoo with Chuck when Chuck turns 18 ( _you promise, dad?_ , he says and makes bigger puppy eyes than his pup Max, and Chuck can be a manipulative little bastard when he sets his mind to it), well, it's not like Herc will actually have to look at the ink on his back.

 

**2021**

It's three weeks after Chuck's birthday, half a week after their third kaiju kill, when Herc finds himself sitting in a tattoo studio in Sydney, watching as his son strips out of his shirt with a big grin on his face. They have a week of leave, since there won't be another kaiju attack so soon after the last one, and Chuck refuses to wait any longer.

The tattoo artist looks like a badly aged version of those emo kids from the early 2000s, but Striker's head technician swears he's the best in all of Australia, and even Herc has to admit that the man's sketches for Chuck's tattoo – their tattoo, he reminds himself – look pretty damn impressive. 

Herc lets Chuck do the talking. He's never been a friend of this whole cult that has grown around Jaeger pilots, the photoshoots and the TV shows and the magazine articles. Herc is a soldier, he follows his orders and does his job, and while he appreciates the respect people have for his work, he doesn't need them fawning over him all day. Chuck, though, Chuck basks in the attention. He loves the sound of his own voice, loves the way people look at him, especially since their last kill and the media calling them one of the best pilot teams the Jaeger program has ever seen. And although Chuck is far too disciplined to let the fame get to his head and distract him from his work, he enjoys showing off.

So Herc just waits patiently while Chuck chats with the man, without really listening to what is being said. It's always the same anyway, what it's like to be a pilot, how it feels to be a hero and save thousands of lives. Herc can't bring himself to blame the boy for bragging – if anyone had given him that much attention at 18, he would have behaved just like him.

He keeps his eyes on Chuck's body, considerably taller and broader than just a few months ago, his pale smooth skin marred by a couple of fresh bruises from their last fight. There's a smaller bruise on Chuck's hip, just above the waistline of his jeans, and that one is not from the fight itself, but from Herc's hands the night after the battle. Chuck had been lying on his stomach then the way he is lying now, stretched out and relaxed, Herc had gripped his hips tight to keep him in place, and as he came between Chuck's thighs he had kissed his shoulder and groaned “damn, you're killing me, boy”.

Herc clears his throat and shifts on his chair. Not the time nor the place. He tries to think really hard about the dissected kaiju organs in the research department.

“Getting nervous, old man?” Chuck turns his head to grin at Herc. “It won't be your turn until tomorrow, you can stop sweating.”

Herc glares at him and pointedly grabs one of the magazines that are lying around – not that he's interested in the 'exciting new work of Hong Kong's rising tattoo star', but it's better than getting a hard-on while staring at his son in public. Then again the magazines don't help much, because half of them include an article about him and Chuck. He's not sure what makes him more uncomfortable, that a 'list of the world's sexiest Jaeger pilots' in some American rag describes him as a 'hot dad with a sexy Aussie accent' (and anyway, why is he only sixth on that list?) or that there are several articles that sound far too excited, for his taste, about 'teenage hero Chuck Hansen finally turning 18'.

He still ends up wishing he hadn't run out of reading material quite so quickly, because sooner or later he finds himself watching Chuck again, studying the lines of black ink as they appear on his son's skin, and as much as he hated the idea initially, he can't help but admire not only the quality of the work now, but also the way it looks on Chuck's skin. As the hours pass, all he wants is to kiss the reddened skin, to retrace Striker's sharp lines over strong back muscles with his fingers and his mouth (thinks of Chuck doing the same on his back once Herc has his tattoo, of the reverence with which his son touches his Jaeger, the way he's never touched Herc).

And Chuck, Chuck gets bored soon enough, lying there and trying to keep still, so he ends up looking at his father, and he knows Herc well enough to recognise that hungry look in his eyes. The same look as last night, just before Herc had grabbed Chuck, pushed him up against the wall of their quarters and kissed him breathless. Being the manipulative little bastard that he still is, Chuck smirks and licks his lips, his back muscles twitch whenever he's allowed to move for a moment, and when the tattoo artist steps outside for a short break, Chuck mouths, “you'll have to wait until it's healed before you get to touch.”

Part of Herc wants to strangle Chuck for that, but mostly he wants to bite down on the juncture of Chuck's shoulder and his neck, wants to watch his back arch up underneath him, ink shifting on his perfectly muscled shoulder while Chuck presses up against him and makes Herc wish he hadn't made an unspoken agreement with himself not to fuck his boy.

“I'll find other places to touch, don't worry, boy.” He makes it sound almost more like a threat than a promise, and Chuck finally flushes a little as if he only remembers now where they are. 

Herc briefly considers excusing himself, but he has enough self-discipline not to jerk off in the bathroom like a teenager. And anyway, tomorrow Chuck would be sitting where Herc is sitting now, and he doutbs his son will fare much better.

 

**2025**

Herc kisses the sweat from Chuck's skin, nuzzles the fuzz at the back of his neck. Kisses his way down to Chuck's shoulder blade and the upper edge of the tattoo, mouthing at sweaty skin while he rocks into him (because somewhere between their sixth and their seventh kill they had forgotten about arbitrarily drawn lines of what they would or wouldn't do, and feeling Chuck clench around him he wonders why the hell he had waited so long). The boy has finally relaxed underneath him in a post-coital haze, moaning softly under Herc's last thrusts, tightening around him a last time, and Herc comes with his face buried against Chuck's neck. Chuck radiates warmth and contentment, and in moments like this one Herc wishes he could just keep him here forever, not for his own sake, but so Chuck would never have to deal with a world that has no use for him anymore.

He rolls off him with a sigh, keeps his hand on Chuck's back. The large tattoo gleams on Chuck's sweaty skin, not one bit washed out after a few years, almost as beautiful as the real Striker had been. A dirty boxer, full of raw strength, but still fast and smart and the best goddamn fighting machine the world had ever seen. Even Herc misses Striker, he can't even imagine the hole Chuck must feel in his heart.

His son doesn't move, lies still while Herc retraces the thick, jagged scar on Chuck's shoulder blade. The escape pod had been damaged, it was a miracle Chuck had survived at all, and even after making it out of the blast he had almost bled to death with a metal shard stuck in his left shoulder before the choppers had found him. The wound is healing well, but the scar is still thick and red and ugly. The lower end of the wound has ruined some of the tattooed tissue, and the result is a tear in the unbelievably life-like representation of the Jaeger, as if Striker's right arm had been ripped off.

Herc flexes his right arm a little, healed so well that he would simply forget about the break, if his injury hadn't kept him from being by Chuck's side that night.

_I should have been there. I should have helped him instead of sending him off to face almost certain death without me. Shouldn't have let my best friend go in my stead. I should have been the one to sacrifice myself, to finish the mission alone so Chuck could get out. Me, not Stacker._

But as much as he flinches every time someone calls him Marshall, as much as it pains him to know that his son is only here because Stacker had sent him on his way, he knows it's selfish to wish for anything else. He knows that Stacker wouldn't have wanted him to die, not when he himself didn't have much time left anyway.

And more importantly, he knows that it would have killed Chuck to lose his father, too. Herc has stopped counting the times Chuck snapped at him over the years that they weren't friends, that they were simply working together, but they both know that Herc is the only person Chuck has left in the world. Why else would he be here now, lying in Herc's bed, even though there is no need for them to stay together anymore?

Herc breathes a soft kiss onto the edge of the fresh scar, and Chuck finally stirs. He sits up and twists around until he can glance down at his own shoulder – not that he can get a good look like this, but he's seen his ruined back in the mirror. He grimaces and looks away again.

“He's gone now.” Chuck's voice is quiet and so very small. The trembling in his voice wakes Max, who raises his head with a whine and sticks his nose over the edge of the bunk bed. Chuck scratches the dog behind the ear, his back still turned to Herc.

Herc doesn't know what to say. It's not just that Striker is gone – as much as Chuck had loved his Jaeger, Striker was hardly the reason why Chuck sounded so close to tears. But Striker had stood for so much more, Striker had stood for Chuck's chance at sparing other people his own fate. Striker had been Chuck's fame, his sense of self-worth, his entire life. Striker had meant people recognising him in the street and telling him with tears in their eyes that they owed him their life.

They all owe him their life now, but Chuck isn't naïve. Gratitude wears down quickly, people move on with their lives, and a world at peace cares little for its war heroes. No man can live his entire life being nothing but what he had done at 22.

Herc covers the scar with his palm, then slides his hand up to massage Chuck's neck, tense again.

“You aren't,” he says, and when Chuck glances back over his shoulder with a confused frown, Herc adds, “gone.”

“I might as well be,” Chuck says without meeting his father's eyes, and he keeps stroking Max's head. The dog whines again, he doesn't understand why his master is so sad these days, even now that he doesn't seem hurt anymore. “There's nothing else left.”

_There's me._

It's not the kind of thing they say to each other, not even now. But Striker is inked into Herc's skin as much as into Chuck's, and Herc finally realises why Chuck has barely met his eyes in days.

Chuck's love for Striker wasn't only about his own purpose in life, his own personal fame. Striker had also been the drift, his only connection to his father, a bond so strong it made up for the lack of words between them. Piloting Striker had brought them together again after the estrangement of Chuck's early teens. And without Striker, what would be left of that bond between them?

With a soft sigh Herc wraps his arms around Chuck and pulls him against his chest – careful and hesitating, because anything even resembling a hug has always been a risk with Chuck, too close for comfort even when they are naked in bed. But for once Chuck doesn't twist out of the embrace, he even stops patting Max's head to lean back against Herc.

“We've spent years in each other's head, kid.” Herc's voice sounds rough to his own ears, close to breaking because he has never known what to do about his son's sadness. He can deal with Chuck's hotheaded anger and his resentment, but seeing Chuck look so lost and lonely makes his chest tight. “Haven't we?”

Chuck turns his head just enough to look at his father, with an irritated frown on his face because he doesn't know what Herc is getting at.

“Then you know there's still something left.”

Even without the drift Herc can almost feel their connection in that moment, like a weak echo of their old mind-meld. Chuck finally smiles again, and then the smile turns into a broad grin. Cheeky and cocky, and after everything Chuck is still the same little shit who'd tease Herc about anything from breathing too heavily after their morning run to not getting it up a second time. He makes a show of having to think about Herc's words for a moment.

“Max?” he tries, grins even more when the dog barks excitedly at the mention of his name. Herc shakes his head; his eyes burn and he buries his face in Chuck's hair.

“Yeah. Max is still here.”

Because after all, Max has always belonged to both of them, and since neither of them is ever going to give him up, there is no way they can go their separate ways. And Herc likes to think that the bond between them has grown strong enough to hold even when the only thing that's left of Striker is the ink on their backs.


End file.
